


The 13th Warrior

by Shi_Toyu



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, The 13th Warrior (1999), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vikings, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Tony Stark, Fortune Telling, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Inaccuracy for THE GAY, King Tony, Language Barrier, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Prisoners (Brief), Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protectiveness, Rune Casting, Vikings, smart bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shi_Toyu/pseuds/Shi_Toyu
Summary: “I blame you for everything bad that has happened in my life,” Bucky growled as he yanked at the ropes holding his hands tied behind his back.Stefan scowled at him thunderously.“I’m an ambassador, Bucky. I’m supposed to talk to people.”“Right. Talk, not start fights with every band of people you come across! I’m supposed to be your interpreter, not your muscle. We’re lucky the Tartars didn’t kill us and yet here we are, tied up and captive in a camp of Northmen.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaesaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/gifts).



> Prompt: (MCU/Any, historial AU) Tony is a Viking who takes monk/villager/soldier Bucky as his captive during a raid. (If you want the roles to be reversed, that's fine too!)
> 
> Okay! So a couple things to note... There are a lot of name changes in this fic to keep it historically/culturally accurate. I tried to keep things easy to figure out though. Bucky is still a nickname, though in this case it is a shortening of the period name Roebuck.
> 
> For the languages, Bucky and Natasha speak to each other in Greek as mentioned, but the Northmen speak Welsh because that's the closest thing Google Translate can give me to Old Norse. I am hereby stating for the record that I have not a lick of knowledge when it comes to either of these languages. I apologize to those who do and must suffer my butchering.
> 
> Finally, if any of you HAVEN't already seen the 1999 movie 'The 13th Warrior', I highly recommend it. It's Antonio Banderas as a viking. That is all.
> 
> Kaesaria, I hope you enjoy! It's not exactly what you asked for, but it's close!

Bucky couldn’t believe his luck. This was the worst, the absolute _fucking_ worst. And of course, _of course_ , it was all Stefan’s fault. Story of his God damned life. Not that Stevie wasn’t completely worth it, and Bucky would no sooner betray their friendship then he would lop off one of his arms, but seriously. This was just ridiculous.

“I blame you for everything bad that has happened in my life,” Bucky growled as he yanked at the ropes holding his hands tied behind his back.

Stefan scowled at him thunderously.

“I’m an ambassador, Bucky. I’m _supposed_ to talk to people.”

“Right. Talk, not start fights with every band of people you come across! I’m supposed to be your interpreter, not your muscle. We’re lucky the Tartars didn’t kill us and yet here we are, tied up and captive in a camp of _Northmen._ ”

“Look, I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Stefan assured, wiggling his too-skinny butt across the dirt to get closer. “Call out to one of them. Maybe we can clear this up. We just need to talk to whoever is in charge around here.”

Bucky grumbled something rude under his breath but did as he was told. There was decent enough traffic where they were being held that he didn’t have to wait for someone.

“Hey! Hey! You there,” he called to an unassuming brunet man with floppy curls who was passing, “we need to speak to your chief, your… headman, your king.”

The man just gave them a startled look before hurrying his steps away from them. Stefan nudged Bucky’s shoulder.

“Try Greek. I don’t think he understood you.”

Bucky shoved him back as best he could before spotting a man with dirty blonde hair and a bow slung across his back.

“Geia sou!” he called again. “Epidiókoume vasiliá sas, archigós sas.”

The man frowned at them for a moment before turning on his heel and stomping just a few tents over. He shoved the red-haired woman tending the fire hard in the shoulder before dancing away from the knife she swiped at him and laughing. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at them. The woman glanced their way before giving the man a sharp retort and heading over. She stood tall before the captive with crossed arms and a displeased scowl.

“Epidiókoume vasiliá sas,” Bucky said to her. “Prépei na tou milíso.”

The woman considered them for a long moment before jerking her head towards a large tent in the center of the encampment.

“Vasiliás mas eínai se aftí tin skiní.”

“She says their king is there,” Bucky informed Steve.

“Vasiliás mas den tha sas milíso.”

“She says he will not speak with us.”

The woman produced a vicious smile.

“Vasiliás mas den tha milíso se sas, giatí eínai nekrós.”

“The king will not speak with us… because he is dead.”

“Tha ypárxei mia giortí apópse, gia na epiléxete éna néo vasiliá. Eseís kai o fílos sas tha prépei na parakolouthísoun. Tha se páro.”

Bucky hesitated, already knowing where this would lead.

“They will be choosing a new king tonight at a gathering, and that she will take us to it, if we would like.”

Stefan beamed.

“That sounds great! Tell her we’d love to go! See, Buck? This wasn’t so bad after all.”

.

..

…

..

.

As it turned out, choosing the new king of this Viking band amounted to one of the two candidates attempting to kill the other and getting killed in turn. Violently. The younger of the two had stabbed his sword through the older, bald-yet-bearded man’s chest and all but ridden him down into a nearby campfire. The flames had lit the younger man’s handsome features in sharp relief and Bucky shuddered at the memory of his bare-toothed grimace.

Now, Bucky eyed the man warily as he moved throughout the camp. He had an artfully sculpted beard, unlike the majority of the men in the camp who seemed to just let them grow out long. He was shorter than a lot of the others, too, even though he carried himself with power. Though he wore no crown, the thick furs that hung from his shoulders marked him apart. Nestania, the red-haired woman who spoke Greek and seemed to hang around them now, informed Bucky that his name was Traehaearn, meaning “Great Iron” and that he was the son of Thorald, the king who had just passed. It helped that they’d been untied and were now being treated more like guests.

“Aftós eínai énas kalós ánthropos,” she informed them, “allá min angízete aftó pou eínai dikó tou.”

Bucky stiffened at the words.

“What?” Stevie asked. “What did she say?”

“That he is a good man, but not to touch what belongs to him. I guess that’s how you wind up like that guy did last night.”

.

..

…

..

.

A ship arrived later in the day, just an hour or so past noon. A boy climbed out and onto the sand, but didn’t move away from the ship. According to Nestania, it was a show of respect. The Northmen encountered many things out on the waters and the boy was waiting and letting them decide if he was real or not before approaching. It was only after darkness had fallen that the entire camp gathered in Trahaearn’s tent to hear the boy speak. Bucky translated for Stevie as Nestania translated for him.

“His name is Pedr. He comes from their homeland in the north with a message for Trahaearn.”

Trahaearn greeted the boy almost excitedly, leaping up to clap him on the back. His face lost a great deal of his seriousness and Bucky had to admit it was a good look for him.

“He comes seeking Trahaearn’s help. His father’s kingdom is under attack, their villages destroyed. They are menaced by an ancient evil. A terror,” Bucky struggled to translate, frowning hard at Nestania. “A terror that has no name. A terror that _must_ not be named.”

All throughout the tent, there was uneasy shifting. The fear was palpable.

“Look at them,” Stefan marveled. “What thing could affect them so?”

But Nestania refused to answer any questions.

“The name cannot be said,” Bucky translated.

They watched as Trahaearn took a deep breath and mulled it over. Then he gestured to a woman who stood behind his throne, what was little more than a wooden chair with more furs thrown over it.

“Dewch angel marwolaeth.”

Nestania’s eyebrows rose before she translated.

“Kaleí gia ton ángelo tou thanátou.”

“He calls for the angel of death.”

Several minutes passed with only a low murmur throughout the crowd. The archer from before had shown up again, crouching at Nestania’s side and keeping her occupied in conversation. Then the crowd parted as a cloaked figure limped its way into the tent. As the figure passed their low table, Bucky looked up and caught a glimpse of what could only be a woman’s face. She would have been beautiful, he thought, if not for the horrific burns that covered half of it. He flinched.

When she finally reached the front of the tent, she and Tahaearn exchanged words. Nestania, thankfully, summarized.

“He calls for the bones,” he translated for Stefan. “She’s an oracle.”

The woman knelt to spread a fur out of the ground before withdrawing what appeared to be the shell of a turtle from beneath her cloak. It rattled as she shook it and chanted. Bones spilled forth as she upturned it over the fur. The tent was deathly silent as she bent over them, deciphering their meaning.

“Kaleí gia tous polemistés tou arithmoú ton dekatrión.”

“She calls for warriors. The number of them… ti?”

“Dekatrión. Ópos kai ta fengária.”

“Thirteen, the number of months in the year. She says that thirteen must go.”

“Pwy a fydd y cyntaf i fynd?” the woman asked.

Tahaearn leaned forward and placed a hand to his chest.

“Byddaf yn y cyntaf i fynd.”

A cry of approval went up throughout the tent. Nestania tipped her head toward them.

“Aftós tha eínai o prótos gia na páei,” she said.

“He will be the first to go.”

There was no time to translate after that, but the proceedings were easy enough to follow without them.

“Pwy fydd y ail?”

Another man rose with a roar, thrusting a hammer high above his blonde hair. The crowd cheered.

“A'r trydydd?”

The next volunteer seemed to melt out of the shadows beside the tall, golden-haired behemoth. His muscles were all compact and slender, his slight frame doing nothing to ease the threat of the glistening daggers strapped to his side.

“Mi wnaf,” he purred, stirring the tent into even more of a frenzy.

Someone started to pound the table rhythmically and soon everyone else had joined it.

“Pedwerydd?” the woman cried and the archer shot to his feet.

“Four,” Bucky counted, just to make sure he’d keep track.

“Fel a fyddwn yn cael ei ddangos gan bobl fel chi!” he crowed, much to the raucous laughter of those around him.

The dark-haired man with the knives glared. The archer’s words must have been a jab, then.

“Pumed?” the oracle continued.

“Five.”

Nestania rose to lay a hand on the archer’s arm.

“Rhywun rhaid eich cadw'n fyw.”

She grinned in the face of the archer’s affronted expression.

“Chweched?”

“Six.”

“Aye!” a dark-skinned man stepped up beside Trahaearn and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, jostling him.

The king beamed and Bucky was again struck by just how handsome he looked when he wasn’t killing someone.

“Shiethfed!”

“Seven.”

The man who stepped up next said nothing, but had a face so burnt by the sun that it was as red as wine. He nodded his assent and the crowd hollered.

“Wythfed!”

“Eight.”

Around the tent, the excitement was building. A young man with hair so blond it looked white jumped up to claim the next position, while the girl he’d been sitting with claimed the ninth spot before it could even be called. She glared as if daring anyone to question her.

“Degfed!”

“Ten.”

Almost reluctantly, the brunet man Bucky had first tried to talk to shuffled forward, and Trahaearn actually launched himself across the tent to pull him to the front. The glee on his face was unquestionable.

“Ddeg!”

“Eleven.”

Another dark-skinned man stepped forward, this one far more serious than the first and with fingers sheathed in metal rings that appeared sharpened like claws.

“Deuddegfed!”

“Twelve.”

“Fe’I gwanaf,” accepted a mild-looking man whose clothes looked more put-together than any others Bucky had seen before in the encampment.

“A rhaid i'r trydydd ar ddeg fod unrhyw ddyn gogledd,” the oracle cried, only to trail off questioningly. “Nid yw neb gogledd?” she repeated as if disbelieving.

A hush fell over the tent. It seemed almost as a whole they turned to look at Bucky and Stefan. Trahaearn took a step in their direction, expression guarded.

Bucky looked desperately to Nestania for a translation.

“Eípe óti i dékati tríti polemistís den prépei na eínai vóreia ánthropos.”

_She said the thirteenth warrior must be no Northman._

Bucky shuddered. _Fuck_. Beside him, Stefan was watching him, waiting for the translation. Bucky knew him, though. He knew Stevie would volunteer even though he wasn’t even ninety pounds soaking wet and would be killed in a heartbeat. Well, Bucky hadn’t been protecting him this long just to go and waste all that effort now. He rocketed to his feet.

“Tha to káno. Tha eínai to dékato tríto polemistís sas.”

The crowd roared as Nestania translated.

_I will do it. I will be your thirteenth warrior._

Trahaerarn broke into a grin.

“Yna, mae'n edrych fel y bydd yn dod i adnabod ei gilydd yn dda, dieithryn hardd,” he said.

It would be weeks before Bucky had managed to piece together enough of their language to understand what the king had said.

_Then it looks like we will get to know each other well, beautiful stranger._

**Author's Note:**

> What Clint said to Loki: "As if I would let you show me up."  
> What Natasha said to Clint: "Someone has to be there to save your life."


End file.
